


The Final Stage

by jinxed_wood



Series: Methuselah's Secret [3]
Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinxed_wood/pseuds/jinxed_wood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All things must pass...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Stage

It was a September evening; not late, but the evenings were drawing closer and it was already twilight outside. Joe leaned back into the cushioned armchair, feeling the ache linger in the small of his back. This would be his last trip to Paris as a Watcher. It hadn’t been said yet but he had seen the speculative gleam in the eyes of the board at the last regional meeting. Retirement loomed large.

The large, leather bound tome in his hands felt like an old friend. There was a sense of comfort, almost of ritual, when you opened up an old chronicle, especially when that chronicle belonged to one as dear and special as Rebecca. It was always a source of amusement to him that, whenever he read one of her chronicles, he could always hear in his mind’s ear Amanda’s voice doing the narration, the two were so inextricably connected in his mind. His smile faded as he realised it had been nearly five years since he’d heard from Amanda.

He carefully opened the book. It was not the original, of course. The original chronicle, written in the early 1600s was carefully kept in a hermetically sealed room. The copy in his hands was from the 1920s and translated into English by a one Joanna Templeton. Joe frowned, remembering a Templeton in one of his classes at the Watcher Academy. Her name had been Lauren and she had been both serious and beautiful and more than a little intimidating to a young soldier fresh from Vietnam. Chances were the two were related, the Watchers were nothing if not proponents of nepotism.

Joe turned the pages until he found what he was looking for and gleefully settled in. A brief conversation with Methos a few months back had garnered Joe another one of his older aliases and some preliminary research had placed him in Rome at the same time as Rebecca. It was one of the researchers in Paris that had put him onto this particular chronicle, and Rebecca's brief acquaintance with a young Watcher who subsequently disappeared in _mysterious_ circumstances.

~~*~*~*~~

“Are you sure this is the place?” Rebbeca asked her companion as she eyed the tall but rather unassuming structure looking over the tiny square. “It doesn’t look very...secret.” She felt rather foolish for saying so, she had lived long enough to know that some of the best secrets were kept in plain sight. Her companion obviously thought so too as he graced her with a snort of amusement.

“Oh yes,” he said. “This is it. Although, I suspect they won’t be here for much longer. Both of our faces are rather well known to them.”

Rebecca frowned. “I don’t see why,” she said. “Neither of us are known for an inclination to take heads.

“Ah, but both of us are rather old and have a penchant for gathering students.” he said. “Watchers are curious about that sort of thing.”

“Then surely they would know Methos’s face even more readily than ours,” Rebecca reasoned.

Ramirez laughed. “Our old friend has long since divorced himself from his true name, even amongst his own kind.”

“Who hasn’t,” Rebecca said, eyeing her companion wryly. “After all, I was not born Rebecca anymore that you were born Ramirez.”

“The difference being this is not Methos’s first sojourn in the Watcher archives,” Ramirez said. “He’s been excising his presence from their records since...well, longer than I’ve known him. It’s one of the reasons he’s been reluctant to speak to us. He tends to avoid his own kind when he assumes a Watcher persona.” He studiously rearranged the fall of his cloak and Rebecca raised her eyebrow. She and Ramirez had known each other for a long time. She knew his tells.

“What are you not telling me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure if it’s relevant, but he’s fallen in love and, well, you know how that is.”

“And they’re a mortal?” Rebecca asked. There was no question about it, really. It wasn’t that Methos wasn’t capable of loving an Immortal, he just made it a point to not fall _in_ love with one.

“A painter by the name of Artemisia,” Ramirez said absently.

Rebecca blinked. “ _Gentileschi?_

“Ah, you’ve heard of her?” Ramirez said. “She’s supposed to be quite brilliant.”

“Yes, she is,” Rebecca said. “I’ve been trying to acquire one of her works for some time but she is very much in demand - however, if she’s enamoured with Methos...”

Ramirez burst out laughing. “You’re going to exploit your friendship with the old man in order to acquire a painting? At a time like this?”

“Well, you know that they say, Juan, when in Rome...” Rebecca said primly. “Besides, I think we both know there is one place Methos _won't_ be avoiding tonight. Come along!”

“You realise that phrase was clichéd even two thousand years ago...” Ramirez grumbled as he followed her.

“But accurate,” Rebecca singsinged. “Hurry up; we have an artist's atelier to visit!”

~~*~*~*~~

“ _...Sir, are you alright?”_

Joe felt a gentle shake on his shoulder and groggily woke up. Damn it, had he really fallen asleep in the library? He looked blearily into a young, worried looking face.

“Sir, are you alright?” the young man repeated. His name was Wainwright, if Joe remembered correctly.

“What time is it?” he asked, hearing the rough croak in his voice. 

“A little after nine, Sir,” Wainwright said. “I’m so sorry to wake you but there’s a Mr... uh... _Michaels_ in the lobby. He said he has an appointment with you?”

Joe smothered a grin, from the hesitation in Wainwrigh's voice, he figured the kid knew damned well who Mr Michaels was. He wondered how long Methos would wait before he attempted to erase himself from the records once more. He might find it more difficult this time around. They knew his tricks now. 

Joe leaned in conspiratorially. “In the Lobby, eh? Doesn’t surprise me. He’s a cheeky old bastard,” he confided, and the younger Watcher grinned. With a start, Joe realised it had been nearly twenty years since Horton had gone rogue, and even the pang of guilt he usually felt when thinking of his brother-in-law had eased into a sort of weary acceptance. Time may not heal _all_ wounds, but it did a pretty good job of papering over them.

Methos was lounging against a wall when he arrived in the Lobby, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing scruffy hiking boots and a sloppy aran sweater, and he wasn’t wearing a coat. He suspected Methos had left it behind in his jeep along with his sword; a silent concession to the unofficial peace accord between him and the Watchers. Joe noted his hair had grown since they’d met in New York in the spring, and was now falling into his eyes. it made him look younger and fresher. Joe hadn’t thought of Methos’s alter ego, Adam Pearson, in a very long time, but there he was. 

Like a punch to the gut, Joe knew what it meant. 

“Joe?” Methos asked, worry evident in his voice as he pushed away from the wall. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Joe muttered. “You owe me dinner.”

~~*~*~*~~

A visit to an artist's workshop was always an assault on the senses, although not in the way a person would automatically assume. The earthy scent of linseed oil tinged with pine and frankinsense never failed to clash almost violently with the more wrenching odours of turpentine and spirits. The lingering acrid smell, reminiscent of a tanner’s yard, told you that somewhere in the building a young apprentice was toiling away at the rather unappealing task of turning lead white. This wild combination of scents quickly became a cacophony when added to the pounding rhythm of a pestle grinding down pigment and the bellow of a master chastising his apprentices.

Rebecca sighed as she felt this strange little alien world wrap itself around her, and glanced around the room, her height easily allowing her to look over the apprentices’ heads. It was a room dominated by men, including the master. Rebecca assumed he was Orazio, Artemesia’s father. A respected and competent artist, but lacking - in Rebecca’s opinion - the fiery flash of genius his daughter possessed. It was then she caught a glimpse of it, on an easel leaning carelessly against a wall, the dim light barely caressing it. 

“Oh my,” Rebecca breathed as she steered herself in the direction of the canvas. “Isn't it wonderful?”

Ramirez passed an eye over it and quirked an eyebrow. “Seems rather gruesome to me,” he said. “I would have thought you'd seen too many severed heads over the years.”

“It’s Judith and Holofernes,” Rebecca said. “Did you know they were both Immortals? The idiot tried to apply mortal rules to an immortal quarrel. He should have never threatened the town; Judith might have left him off with a warning otherwise. She was old enough to afford mercy.”

“Is she still alive?” Ramirez asked, curious. 

“I don’t know,” Rebecca admitted. “I’ve not seen her since the ninth century.” She noticed Orazio drift in their direction and placed a smile on her face as she nudged Ramirez to take the lead. He would expect a prospective buyer to be a man,

“Senor Gentileschi!” Ramirez boomed. “What a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Senor?” Orazi Gentileschi said, eyeing them both warily.

“Please forgive me,” Ramirez exclaimed. “Where are my Manners? I am Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobos Ramírez and this is my companion, Lady Rebecca DeLacey.

The artist bowed politely but still kept an air of stiff formality. “How may I be of help?” he asked.

“Well, I must confess, I have heard excellent accounts of your daughter’s ability and came here in the hope of viewing some of her work and perhaps discussing a commission. Gregor speaks so highly of her talent-”

“Gregor?” Orazio interrupted, the stiffness easing from his shoulders. “You are acquainted with Artemesia’s intended?”

“Oh, I assure you, we are _very_ old friends,” Ramirez said smoothly and Rebecca resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Ah,” Orazio said. “Artemesia and Gregor are presently taking a stroll but they should be back ...”

Rebecca lost track of the rest of Orazio’s words as the uneasy thrill of another Immortal’s presence ran up her spine. It was most probably Methos, unless they were unlucky enough to not have reached him in time. A young woman with dark curls and a pretty smile stepped into the workshop with a familiar figure on her arm.

“Gregor!” Juan boomed. “What a fortuitous surprise!”

~~*~*~*~~

“So, Artemesia Gentileschi,” Joe said, not able to keep the amusement out of his voice. “You kept _that_ one under your hat.

Methos’s eyes flitted around the restaurant before coming back to him. “It isn’t as happy a story as I would have wished,” he admitted lowly. “Artemesia was... special; brave and independent and wonderfully talented. You know something of her history, I suppose?” Methos sighed as Joe nodded. 

“Agostino Tassi was an unconscionable bastard,” Methos said. “Yet Artemesia never let him win. She was so full of life, so impassioned with her work. You should have seen her face when I told her I had to leave. It was so cold, so dismissive; I can hardly blame her. She put her trust in me and, as far as she was concerned, I betrayed her. I could hardly have told her the truth - and then her father married her off to that idiot Pierantonio less than a month afterwards. Orazio was a fine painter, but he had little discernment when it came to finding his daughter a marriageable man.”

“Yourself included,” Joe said dryly.

Methos shrugged. “I loved her,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I was good for her.”

~~*~*~*~~

“Are you sure?” Methos asked lowly. “I’ve heard rumours at the Watcher’s house, of course, and they’ve been discovering the remains.”

“It’s Caspian,” Rebecca murmured. “I’m sure of it - and I mean to run him out of Rome.”

Methos’s eyes flitted across the workshop and rested on Artemesia, who was talking to her father. “What am I going to tell her?” he muttered.

“The truth?” Ramirez suggested. 

Rebecca sighed, Ramirez knew as well as she that Methos would never do that. “Tell her whatever you need to say to put some distance between you and her,” she said. “Rome is a small city, if Caspian gets even a hint of your presence here, he’s going to come looking. You won’t be able to keep her safe. You know that.” 

A shadow passed through his eyes. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“But she’ll be alive,” Rebecca pressed gently. 

He nodded. “I’ve always hated this part,” he said softly

~~*~*~*~~

“So,” Joe said, after the meal was finished and the coffee served. “Are you going to tell me now or are you going to wait until after lunch with Mac tomorrow?”

Methos raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate,” he drawled. 

Joe sighed. “You want me to spell it out? Fine,” he said. “Scruffy hair, scruffy clothes, patented slouch - I’ve seen you pull off the student look before. You’re starting over somewhere.”

“You’ve seen me start over before, Joe,” Methos said.

“No, I’ve seen you take on a new name before,” Joe corrected. “But not a new life. This is going to be last time we meet, isn’t it?”

“I’m not going to disappear,” Methos said. “We’ll stay in contact.”

“Sure you will, by email,” Joe said. “But in the flesh?

Methos looked away. “It’s time, Joe, you know that. I’ve stayed out in the open _way_ too long and made myself far too easy to find. Don’t tell me you haven’t been keeping tabs on my Watcher’s updates. Time was, I ’d be challenged maybe once or twice a decade, now it’s more like once or twice a month. if I stay much longer, my luck is going to run out. I need to disappear for a while.”

“And by a while, you mean a century or two,” Joe said. For a moment, there was a heavy silence at the table and then Methos lifted his hand for the cheque.

“Come on, let’s go for a beer,” he said. “I happen to know this little blues bar that serves a decent brew.”

“Yeah, yeah - you know this means you’re going to have to settle your bar tab tonight,” Joe said pointedly. 

Methos threw him a look of disgust. “You _wouldn’t_.”

“Just think of it as contributing to my retirement package,” Joe joked. “Gotta keep an old man in twenty year old scotch - is Mac going to be joining us?”

“It seems appropriate, don’t you think?” Methos said. “I tried to get hold of Amanda but...?”

“Singapore,” Joe said, with a smirk. “She’s keeping busy.”

“But of course she is,” Methos sighed. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I hate saying goodbye,” he admitted.

“Yeah, well, I guess we’re going to have to get good and drunk so that neither of us remembers to say it,” Joe declared. 

Methos smirked. “Are we having a goodbye party or a wake?”

“Don’t tempt me, old man, don’t tempt me.”

**FINIS**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: There is a rather good page for [Artemesia Gentileschi at wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemisia_Gentileschi). It even has an image of the painting referenced in the story, _Judith slaying Holofernes._ I've always found her a fascinating person and couldn't help shoehorning her into the story!


End file.
